Marianne Moore Was Here (1896-1916)

Near the train tracksand Chen’s Chinese Restaurantthere’s a blue and gold plaque with your name on it,a row of houses for sale, a man pushing a tin babyin a canopy stroller, and a boysenberry bush in bloom.On Tuesdays the train passes,frightens the stray cats.And, the sewage systemgrows old inside the belly of this townwhere contaminated water drives a wedge of ironthrough Pennsylvania history.The snails are Dutch, the slugs are French,and a steamroller passes while mencrush the bones of Carlisle,while the ghosts of confederate soldiersand Ohio Indians separate us,while salesmen suck me into the line of traffic on Route 11,while the shape of your face and tricorne hathang in a plume of exhaust trailing from tailpipesthere are hundreds of pots and pansstacked on the back of a truckidling in front of my house.